Under the bed in an upstairs bedroom in 221B Baker Street there is a big, old-fashioned suitcase. It's labelled as belonging to Capt. J. H. Watson. It has been under the bed since shortly after John first moved in. Sherlock Holmes inevitably opened it within the first month, his natural curiosity causing eyes and long fingers to smooth over the various textures of the contents. To open boxes, to stroke metal and ribbon, peruse aged photos, to stroke fabric both olive drab, and black and scarlet, to circle brass buttons, to rub traces of sand between inquisitive fingers noting the differences in granularity between desert and river, and finally to hold up a chain and touch with the tip of one index finger the name embossed on battle scarred and blood ingrained discs. Curiosity sated, and with surprising reverence, the case was carefully closed, locked, returned to its exact position, and has not moved since.

Mrs Hudson once asked John over tea if she should send it to his new flat. John declined. "I'll let you know, once I'm settled." He drained his tea, made his excuses and left shortly after, careful to not catch her eye. Unwilling to let her see the pain in his expression.

When John finally confessed to Mrs Hudson that he intended to propose to Mary, she asked again. "No Mrs Hudson. It belongs here, with Sherlock. If Mycroft ever clears the flat let be know, but until then this is where it belongs."

Mrs Hudson patted his arm in her strangely perceptive way and with a look of pained sorrow soothed "Of course dear."

Under the bed in an upstairs bedroom in 221B Baker Street there is a big, old-fashioned suitcase. It's labelled as belonging to Capt. J. H. Watson. It has been under the bed since shortly after John first moved in, and has not moved since.


This is my headcanon.

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